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Chapter 14
I’m still glaringat our waitress when Kal exits the building, leaving me alone inside without a single word in parting. I blink as sunlight quickly floods the floor, momentarily allowing me to see the ocean-themed artwork hanging on the paneled walls and the giant talking bass mounted above the bar.
Having never been to one in Boston, I can’t accurately judge, but I’m willing to stake my life on this being a completely different atmosphere from the nightlife there.
Maybe it’s part of the small, kitschy island charm. Maybe I’m just sour because Kal’s best trick seems to be ditching me.
Gwen walks back over with a ceramic bowl in hand, setting it down on the table in front of me. Thick steam rolls off the dish, its vomit scent smacking me in the face. Wrinkling my nose, I push it away, taking a sip of my drink.
Placing her hand on her hip, Gwen nods at the lasagna. “Aren’t you gonna eat what you ordered?”
Her tone gnaws at my nerves, eating away at my resolve. “I don’t know. Are you going to stand there and watch?”
“Probably not. I don’t want to bear witness when you puke your guts up.”
Rolling my eyes, I fish my phone out from my purse, checking my unread texts. There aren’t many, a couple from Ariana asking my opinion on her wardrobe, one from Stella saying she misses me being a buffer between her and Ari’s fashion choices, and one from Mamá saying not to panic, because she’s coming for me.
Apparently, even though I’ve been in Aplana over a week now and have sent no distress signals home, my parents are still pushing the narrative that I’m some sort of unwilling victim in this marriage.
Ironic, considering they had no problem tying me to the same fate with another man, though I suppose my relationship with Mateo benefited them in a way mine with Kal doesn’t.
Still, they never gave me a real choice. It was their way, or face certain death by the hands of the Elders.
I should’ve picked death.
In the end, I feel like I did, anyway.
Typing out a quick reply to my sisters, I leave my mother’s message unanswered, stuffing my phone back into my purse and scooting from the booth.
Gwen quirks a blonde brow. “Leaving without paying? Classy.”
I sling my purse over my shoulder and hold it tight against my side, unwilling to let her know that even if I wanted to pay, I wouldn’t have anything to do it with. Not only does my super considerate husband abandon me in town, but he also leaves me with no money or knowledge of my whereabouts.
“Apparently my husband owns this place, so... put it on his tab or something.”
Spinning around, I don’t wait for her response as I head for the front door. My hand grazes the push bar at the same time someone’s fingers curl around my elbow, yanking me backward.
My arm flails blindly, jabbing in the direction of my assailant; the back of my hand connects with his cheek, a satisfying crack echoing through the air as I smack him.
“Jesus,” the man says, wrenching my hands behind me, pulling so I’m flush with his chest. His breath is hot in my ear, and I squirm violently as I try to get away, wondering why the other people in the bar aren’t helping me.
“Stop moving, bitch,” he grunts, shaking me a little.
“Let go of me and I will,” I spit, strands of hair sticking to my face. Sweat beads along my hairline, fear wedging its way into my heart even though I’ve been in this kind of situation before.
With Mateo, I always knew how it would end, with bruises and chipped teeth. By the time he was seventeen, Mateo had had two oral surgeries and at least four veneers put in.
But this is a stranger, in a foreign place, and I don’t necessarily know any of his potential weaknesses. In the position I’m in, arms pinned to my sides, doubled over with him pressed on top of me, my normal defense mechanisms are skewed at best.
Still, I manage to slip one arm free, balling that hand into a fist and swinging it over my shoulder; I hear it connect with bone, feel it split beneath the force, and my assailant drops me, clutching his nose and hissing a string of profanities.
“Fuck! This bitch just broke my nose!” he moans, cupping his palms over his face. His chin-length, dark blond hair falls over his eyes as he stoops over, trying to catch his breath.
“Dr. Anderson finds out you called her a bitch, and I guarantee he’ll break more than just that,” Gwen says from behind the bar, stopping at the tap to fill a glass.
The few other customers milling about have either managed to somehow miss the scuffle or are trained to ignore commotion, because no one even bats an eye as I distance myself from my attacker. After I have a second to collect myself, I recognize him as the man behind the bar when we first walked in, the gold chain around his neck giving him mobster vibes.
His boat shoes, however, do not.
